


mixing my prescriptions with my problems

by everythingwillend



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Guns, M/M, Peterick, The Youngblood Chronicles - Freeform, Violence, cop!pete, just a dramatic mobster au, mob boss!patrick, no explicit sex, no major character death i promise, probably kinda ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingwillend/pseuds/everythingwillend
Summary: Patrick is the leader of the most notorious mob in Chicago. Pete is a detective desperate to put him behind bars.One night, when Pete is sure he has him cornered, things take a turn for the worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic. It’ll likely be around 3-5 chapters. Any feedback is absolutely welcome and appreciated!

Stepping over a limp body with blood spreading from beneath it like a crimson river, the shadowy figure pocketed his weapon and turned his head slightly to glance over his shoulder.  
“Get this cleaned up,” he said in a soft voice.  
Turning slightly, his face became visible in the dim warehouse lights, his blond hair falling onto his forehead and into his eyes. Patrick raised his arm and adjusted the cuff of his crisp black suit, before heading towards the door.  
“We’re expecting company shortly,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing into a back room.

Patrick wasn’t exactly proud of who he had become, but he was certain that he wouldn’t change even if given the opportunity. On a cold, stormy night, his father had been gunned down at a deal gone wrong, and with that, 22 year old Patrick was thrust into the spotlight as the most notorious gang in Chicago’s leader.  
On that night, he promised his father one thing; he would make him proud.  
It had been a year, give or take a day, and Patrick had completely stepped into the role he had been assigned. He called the shots, and with forty-something men and women hanging on his every word, he ruled the city with an iron fist.

Things had gone smoothly. He had orchestrated a heist or two, pulled off several drug deals, and put his fair share of bullets into bodies. But today was different. Today, Patrick was closer to being caught than he had ever come. All there was to do was beat them at their own game.

Pete Wentz was a fucking good cop, okay? He worked hard, he was smarter than anyone else on the force, and he had successfully brought down three of Chicago’s major crime circles. But he wasn’t satisfied with three- he wouldn’t rest until he had the big prize.  
The Youngbloods.  
Patrick Stump had taunted him for years. Pete couldn’t count all the close encounters on one hand, the list had grown so long. It was almost routine at this point; Pete was always one step behind him, stepping on the offbeats while Patrick kept perfect time.  
So when he got the tip that the abandoned warehouse on Gatsy street was in fact not abandoned, he sprang into action.

Almost running through the halls of the station, he burst into the police chief’s office.  
“Joe, I need you to get a team together. I got a new tip.” Pete paused, meeting his friend’s eyes. “It’s him.”  
Joe Trohman had been chief of police for years, but Pete’s friend for even longer. In high school, Pete had made him promise they’d be friends forever. And so far, they had both been true to their word.  
Joe didn’t say anything, merely nodded and picked up his phone, and with that, Pete took off down the hallways again. Stripping down from his plain clothes and slipping on a uniform, complete with a bulletproof vest and a plethora of hidden weapons, he determinedly prepared himself for what was to come.

Not even twenty minutes later, Pete’s team was ready, piling into their vehicles and tearing out of the parking lot.  
This time was going to be different. Pete could feel it.

Patrick was fully aware that they were expecting guests. Of course, he couldn’t know for certain, but he always had a strong feeling when something big was about to happen. And he had never been wrong. Not once.  
He sat at the head of metal table, tapping his fingers absently against its surface.  
“Any word from the guards?” He asked quietly, turning to look at the rest of the men in the room. Andy, the head of security for the Youngbloods, stepped forward, shaking his head.  
“None yet. We’ve asked that they inform us of any and all disturbances.” Andy said, his face half-shadowed and his eyes downcast. “You’ll be the first to know.”  
Patrick stood up, brushing off his jacket. “Keep me posted.”  
With that, he stalked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Barely thirty seconds after this exchange, an unknowing Pete was briefing his team as they stood a few hundred yards from the warehouse.  
“There’ll be guards. Lots. And they won’t hesitate to take you out.” He said, looking around at the stony, determined faces of his fellow operatives. “Arrest as many as you can. Shoot back if necessary. Just remember,” he said, eyes growing dark and narrow. “Leave Stump to me.”  
A few minutes later, his back pressed against the cold steel of the secret hideout, Pete was riddled with adrenaline and anticipation. A quiet pop, and the door guards crumpled to the ground. His heart skipped a beat as they quietly moved forward. They were close.  
He rounded a corner, pointing his gun around the room and waving at his team to follow him inside.  
Things were going smoothly. Too smoothly, in fact. It had him wondering if they were even in the right place. Maybe his tip had been false? But that wouldn’t explain the door guards-  
Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of gunshots and shouting. Pete ducked behind a nearby crate, holding his weapon to his chest as his heart tried to break out. He heard a bullet, a scream, and a loud thud.

Swallowing, he rounded the corner of the crate and fired a few shots at some of the people that had flooded the room. Several missed, but several made contact with their targets. As bodies continued to fall around him, he forged ahead, managing to knock one man out with the butt of his gun before shooting another in the chest.

Things rapidly quieted down and became very still. His men kept their weapons pointed, but their enemies lowered their quickly and stood up straight, their attention focused on a figure that stood backlit in the doorway.  
What was left of Pete’s heart rapidly dropped into his stomach.  
It was him.  
Over the last year or so of desperately chasing the Youngbloods, all the dead ends and false leads, and even all of the close encounters, Pete had never come face-to-face with his rival. But now he was here, in the flesh and all too real.

Before anyone had time to react, a gun was raised and the remaining three bodies on Pete’s side fell to the ground, cold and dead.  
Pete stood frozen, staring at the figure who had begun to make his way across the room. As his face came into the light, Pete averted his eyes and pocketed his weapon. He was cornered. He found himself absently thanking god that Joe had decided to sit this one out.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away from him, and Pete looked up again to see the face of his long-standing rival looking all too real in front of him.  
“You’re Pete Wentz.” The words cut through the air like a guillotine through flesh, and he nodded, confirming his identity to this man who now held his life in his hands.  
He smiled, wide and all teeth, reaching his eyes in the most unpleasant way that left Pete’s skin crawling.  
“I’m Patrick,” He said, holding out a hand that Pete cautiously shook. “We’ve been waiting for you.”  
And with a sudden thump and a searing pain in the back of his head, Pete’s vision went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello !! here’s chapter two gals and gays. TW for suicide mention, but other than that it’s all good!!   
I’m thinking this might end up being longer than I anticipated, so if you have any plot ideas that you’d like to see, leave me a comment! I’d love to know what y’all want.

The first thing he notices as he starts to come to is the strong scent of dust and something a little more toxic radiating off of the cloth tied around his head. His vision is completely obscured, as well as his nose and mouth, leaving him with no choice but to breathe in the smell of something vinegary. His head begins to feel blurry, and before he knows it, his vision goes dark once more.

The second time he wakes up, his surroundings have done a complete 180. He’s sitting in a metal chair, his hands and feet bound tightly to it. The cloth is gone, and he’s free to look around, though there isn’t much to see.  
The room is fairly plain. Four walls and a door, which he’s sure is locked. A large mirrored portion of the wall that must be a one-way, no doubt providing his captors with an easy way to keep an eye on him. His chair is the only furniture he can see. The floor is clean and plain. Everything is silent, save a quiet electrical hum that seems to almost vibrate the air around him.

Pete has been in tough spots before. He’s been kidnapped, drugged, transported to another state in the back of the van, and always come out on top. He’s never felt as trapped as he appeared to be, never felt hopeless or desperate as he worked his way out of seemingly desolate situations.

This time, he feels genuine fear spark inside him as he evaluates his predicament.

For the first time, he might truly be trapped.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open, a man doesn’t recognize coming in with a chair and swinging it around to sit on its surface backwards. He stares Pete down, dark blue eyes meeting Pete’s soft brown ones.

“Your name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. The third.” The man says bluntly. “You are 27. You are a head operative on the Chicago police force. You have single handedly brought down three crime rings.” He pauses, a cruel smile creeping onto his face. “Your mother is Dale Wentz. Your father is Pete Wentz the second. You live on 275 Cooper Street in apartment 4C. You went to college for political science before dropping out to start a band. On your eighteenth birthday you tried to commit suicide.”

Pete does not break eye contact, but his mind is reeling. It makes sense that they would know who he is. Of course they’d do research on the man who had been hunting them for a year now. But it still scares him, to hear the facts laid out bare in front of him. They know who his parents are. They know where he lives. They know about his suicide attempt.

“Alright tough guy, any other pointless facts you wanna spew at me?” He fights to regain composure, to not let his fear show on his face. He tilts his chin back slightly, defiantly, and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve made your point. You know who I am.”

The man just stares at him for a moment before standing up, pulling a knife out of his pocket and flicking it open. Oh. Maybe taunting him was a dumb move on Pete’s part. He begins to circle Pete’s chair slowly, tossing his knife in the air and catching it a few times.

“You know, Mr. Wentz, I feel like you aren’t fully grasping the gravity of your situation.” He’s made it all the way around, and he smirks at Pete’s cold expression as he continues to circle like a vulture round its prey. “You are in an undisclosed location. Your entire team is dead. You have the Youngbloods watching your every move. And believe me, Mr. Wentz, if you chose to pull any stunts....” he flicks the knife shut and stops in front of Pete once more, leaning in, his face mere inches away. “Your life holds no value to us.”

Pete lets his chin fall to his chest, rolling his head back before making eye contact with the guard.  
“Alright, freak, what do you want?” he asks, “Money? Intel? Can you let me know what your motive is here?”

The man settles back into his own seat, staring at Pete, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Wentz, do you know what drives a man to kill?”

Pete blinks, taken aback by the question. “Sorry, what are you? A bond villain or something?”

The guard shakes his head. “Just answer the question. What drives a man to kill?” He drags out the question, punctuating each word like a gun punctuates a death sentence.

Pete shakes his head, somewhat exasperated. “Um, I don’t know. Money? Men kill for money.”

At this, the (very annoying and stupid) guard sits forward, resting his arms on the back of the chair. His hands are calloused and rough, and on one wrist he wears a simple black watch. The jewelry is almost off-putting, seeing something so delicate and ornate on someone who is quite the opposite.

But now his attention shifts to meet the guard’s eyes once more. The blue is the color of a stormy sea, and it feels fitting that Pete almost feels like he’s drowning in that moment.

“The answer, my friend, is power.” A smile, not meeting his eyes, grows on his face. “Men kill for power, for domination. We are not in the business of being merciful, and you are not exempt from this rule.” He stands again, this time heading for the door. He pauses as he reaches it, looking back at Pete. “You might want to start getting your story straight, Mr. Wentz. I don’t think you’ll want to find out what we do to liars.”

The door slams shut behind him, plunging Pete back into a silence he has come to dread. 

And just like that, the situation has gone from hopeless to desolate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello!  
this chapter is short, but i’m going to be posting two tonight!! so this is a setup for what’s to come. also patrick is kinda homo just sayin

Patrick sits completely still on the other side of the glass that separates him from his newest captive. His legs are crossed, his arms folded tightly at his chest, and he shows no outward signs of emotion as he surveys the scene in front of him. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, his mind is reeling.

Someone betrayed him.

Someone had to have slipped Wentz the information about the warehouse, and Patrick was going to find out who. And he was going to make them pay.

As he contemplated ways to punish whoever the offender may be, the door to Pete’s cell swung open, and Daniel, his personal body guard, stalked out.

“Well, I think I scared him a bit. Hopefully he’ll tell us what we need to know.” Daniel says, moving to stand at Patrick’s side.

“If he wants to stay alive he’ll tell us everything he knows.” Patrick’s eyes stay trained on Pete, now looking around the room frantically, shooting the occasional glance at the window.

He watches him for a moment more before abruptly standing up. “I’m going to interrogate him in one hour. I want him ready to answer as many questions as I want to ask,” Patrick directs the next statement at Daniel. “Don’t hurt him too badly. I want to save some of the fun for later.”

He turns and heads down a long hallway towards the cold room that he’s come to know as his, dramatically flopping onto his bed the minute the door closes behind him. He’s too young for this. He shouldn’t be running a crime ring, he should be partying. Going to college. Having his first experiences at gay bars. Meeting beautiful men.

His mind drifts to Pete. Pete, with his stupid beautiful hair and skin that looks so soft and smooth, deep brown eyes with just a hint of gold-

But the thing is, Pete’s temporary. Patrick reminds himself of this fact, repeating it like a mantra in his mind. Pete may be beautiful, but soon he’ll be dead. And it doesn’t do anyone any good to fall in love with a dead man.

Letting out a sigh, he sits up, unbuttoning his shirt. He always likes to look nice for interrogations. Something about it makes him feel more powerful, makes the adrenaline rush even more intense.

He starts to get ready, carefully smoothing out wrinkles and running his fingers through his hair. Tying up his black boots with fingers that have begun to shake with anticipation.

And if he thinks about Pete as he does this, it’s because he’s planning his demise. It’s not at all because when he thinks about the gentle curve of Pete’s lips, or the sparkle in his eyes, or the way his long fingers look when they’re tied behind his back. He doesn’t think of how hair his soft looks, or how strong his arms must be.

Not even once.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me comments!! tell me what u liked, offer some constructive criticism, let me know if you want to see any plot points happen!!

If Pete were to rank the moments in his life from best to worst, he’s pretty sure this would fall to the very bottom. In fact, there’s a special spot reserved just for this horrible day so far at the bottom that it’s in the first layer of hell.

Nonetheless, as he wiles away the time he spends in this boring, sterile room by staring at the door, waiting for it to open, he can’t help but almost feel excited.

Because as fucked up as that is, it is kind of exciting. After a year of hunting the Youngbloods, a year of hunting Patrick Stump, he’s in their headquarters. And sure, he’s tied to a chair. Sure, not that long ago a guard was spouting off all of his personal information like it was yesterday’s news. His circumstances could absolutely be better. But he’ll figure it out. He always does. And when he gets out here, it’s over for these assholes. He’s going to end them all.

Pete’s train of thought is broken by the door swinging open. He looks up, expecting to see another guard, but instead he’s greeted with the all-too-familiar face of Patrick.

Patrick steps into the room, shutting the door gently behind him, righting the chair left behind by the previous guard and taking a seat in front of Pete. He unbuttons the cuffs of his black dress shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows before sitting forward and resting his arms on his knees.

He stares at Pete for one long moment, their eyes locking. Patrick’s expression is smug, almost amused, and Pete finds himself wishing his hands were untied so he could smack the look off entirely. Instead, he holds the gaze, staring Patrick down as best as he can, trying to be as intimidating as possible while having zero leverage on the situation.

Finally, Patrick speaks.

“So, Mr. Wentz- or should I call you Pete?” He pauses, sitting back slightly in his chair and smirking. “Yeah, I like that better. So, Pete, tell me- who was your informant? Who gave you the tip about our little hideaway?” 

His expression stays the same but an ounce of annoyance shows in his eyes. Pete stays silent, casting his eyes downward. He isn’t going to play these games.

Patrick stands up and walks slowly behind him. A spike of fear jolts through Pete’s body, but it’s quickly replaced with confusion as he feels a blade slip beneath the tightly knotted rope on his wrists. With a fast upward slice, his hands are free from their bindings, and he rubs the harsh red lines that now circle his wrists, urging them to disappear.

Patrick sits back down, pocketing the knife. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way- let’s try again. Who is your informant?”

Pete glances at him. Patrick is sitting back slightly, his legs spread a tiny bit apart, his arms crossed tightly at his chest. He seems incredibly relaxed and yet somehow wound, almost to the point of bursting. After a long moment, Patrick jumps up again, and in a flash Pete’s head is thrust back by the hair. Patrick’s face is mere inches from his own, his eyes full of danger and something Pete can’t quite place.

“I’m not going to ask again, sweetheart.” Patrick flicks the knife out again, gently resting the blade against Pete’s exposed throat. “I’m not afraid of hurting you. In fact, unless you start talking, I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

Pete glares down his nose at the man standing over him, wishing he had something better to do, something better to say- but he finds himself speaking before he can stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

“It was Jay!” He blurts out, more fear leaking into his tone than he would have liked. “Jay called in a tip about the warehouse. He told us when to come. And he told us no one would catch us until it was too late.”

Patrick lets go of Pete’s hair, sitting back down, a satisfied expression creeping onto his face. Pete’s head drops to his shoulder, eyes closed, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. He sits up straight again, glaring at Patrick with as much hatred as he can muster.

“Well, now, was that really so hard?” Patrick smiles at him, clearly enjoying this. “Now listen- I’m going to go deal with him. Have to make him pay for his crimes, don’t I?” He laughs, standing and heading for the door. “I’m going to leave you untied as a thanks for your... cooperation. Don’t try anything stupid while I’m gone.” He shoots a final grin at Pete before the door closes behind him, whistling a tune as he walks away.

Pete is truly, deeply, horribly fucked. He just gave up the name of the only other person that could have helped him. For all he knows he’s miles from the warehouse and Joe will have no clue where to find him. He’s alone and trapped.

He walks to the door and tries it, jiggling the handle and sighing when it’s predictably locked. He looks around. The room is completely empty, save the two chairs. He could try and bash them into the window, but the guards watching over him would put a stop to it before he could get two steps.

He’s going to die here.

The time passes slowly. He’s not sure if it’s been hours or minutes, but he does know the number of screws on the door (14), how many steps it takes to cross the room lengthwise (7), and how many times the bright fluorescent light has flickered (23).

After what feels like an eternity, the door opens again, and two guards clad in all-black suits take Pete by the arms and escort him out the room. He’s never been so happy to be escorted out of a location before.

He’s marched down a long hallway, illuminated only by a dim light hanging from the ceiling every ten feet or so. Every once in a while they pass another heavy metal door, or a branching hallway. They turn right, then left, then left again- and then they stop completely, facing another nondescript door.

One guard unlocks it, the other keeping a firm grip on Pete’s arm. The door swings open to reveal a small, but surprisingly comfortable looking bedroom. He’s pushed inside, the door slamming shut and locking behind him. Pete feels like he should have it in him to fight back, call them names, beat against the door- do something in protest- but instead he finds himself gravitating towards the bed.

The last thing he thinks of before losing consciousness is the way Patrick’s hand felt in his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyoooo i hope y’all are good! i’m second guessing everything i’ve written ever, but i’ve decided this will be a journey of growth and for once in my life i won’t delete everything i write :)

Patrick is really in a tough spot.

On the one hand, Pete is his enemy. He broke into their facility and shot three of Patrick’s men. He most likely gave sensitive information to his boss, which means that the threat hasn’t receded yet. He’s annoying as all hell and at this point, he’s worth very little to the Youngbloods. It’d be easiest to just kill him, call it a day. Just another body to add to the steadily growing list.

On the other hand, he could be useful. From the information Patrick gathered, his captive holds a relatively high position on the police force. He’s got information that would completely change the game. But the likeliness he’d give it up willingly is very slim.

Patrick is wandering the halls of the hideout mindlessly as he mulls his options over. He’s taking turns on autopilot, his feet moving before his brain can decide where to go.

The thing is, he doesn’t necessarily want to kill Pete. As annoying and frustrating as he is, there’s a certain charm about him. He radiates confidence, exudes an energy of determination. He’s not afraid of Patrick, even though all the odds are stacked against him and really, Pete should be fucking terrified of him.

As he reached this conclusion, Patrick finds his steps slowing. He looks around at his surroundings, taking in the dim hallway before his eyes land on a door.

Pete’s door.

Before he can stop to think, he’s pulling out his keys and unlocking the heavy steel door, stepping into the room.

Pete sits up quickly, glaring at Patrick from his spot on the bed. 

“What do you want?” he spits, his eyes full of venom.

Patrick almost laughs. This guy doesn’t quit, that’s for sure.

“I just figured I’d stop by. See how you’re settling in to your new room.” He says, casting a glance at their surroundings as he speaks. “We prefer our guests to be comfortable.” He punctuates the end of the sentence with a grin, looking down at Pete like a shark examines its prey.

Pete stands up defensively, standing his ground. “I’d be a lot better if I weren’t locked in a cell, alone. It’d be nice to know what day it was, what time it is- anything, man!” He buries his head in his hands, voice muffled, “I just want to know anything you’ll tell me.” Desperation leaks into his voice at the end and Patrick almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

He steps forward, taking a seat on a small metal stool. “Alright, Petey,” he says, fixing his eyes on Pete’s face, where defeat and frustration have melted together into what threatens to become hot, angry tears any minute. “Let’s try something fun. You get to ask me three questions. Any three. And in return, I get to do the same.”

Pete sits cautiously back down on the edge of the bed, never taking his hardened eyes off of Patrick. “Okay. Fine.” He settles into his seat a little more and sighs. “How long have I been here?”

Patrick crosses his legs. “It’s been around two days since your team attempted to storm the warehouse. You were unconscious for one of them, as I’m sure you recall.” He sees Pete stiffen, his shoulders filling with tension and his brow furrowing deeply. It occurs to Patrick that he doesn’t like it when Pete seems stressed. He quickly stuffs the realization into a box in the back of his head, tries not to think about it.

He forces a smile. “Okay then, my turn.” Patrick thinks for a split second. He has a million questions he wants the answers to, but he only has time for three. “You must have told people where you were going. Who’s looking for you?”

Pete’s inward battle briefly flashes across his face. Patrick’s anticipating a lie when he speaks, but he’s met with a soft voice. “The chief of police. Probably a few other operatives too.”

Patrick presses further. “No family?” He knows it’s cruel, trying to pry into the life of a man he already has at his mercy. But he has a job to do.

Pete shakes his head. His eyes are downcast as he answers, “No. No family.” His voice comes out small, and in that moment Patrick wishes he could take it back, wrap Pete in his arms and tell him it’ll be okay- but it won’t. So he doesn’t.

Pete meets his eyes for a moment, unable to hide his anger. But it’s just a fleeting moment, and soon the stony wall Patrick is quickly growing used to has replaced all emotion.

“Alright.” He clears his throat, crosses his arm, sits up straighter. “What are you going to do with me?”

Patrick stares at him. “Do you want to know the easy version? Or the truth?”

Pete scoffs, the fire creeping back into his eyes. “The truth, dumbass.”

Patrick doesn’t miss a beat. “The truth. The truth is, you’re going to die. We’re going to get all the answers we need out of you, whether you’d like to cooperate or not- we have our ways.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And when we’re satisfied? One of the guards will take you out back and shoot you. Or maybe I’ll do it myself. Either way, you’re never getting out of here.”

Pete has gone from angry to furious. “Man, you can’t do this! I’m just trying to keep Chicago safe, and with you idiots running drugs and killing anyone who crosses you, you’re one of the bigger threats!” He’s near shouting, gesturing wildly with his hands.

Patrick is silent, staring at him. After a moment, Pete quiets back down, and then he speaks. “Listen, Petey.” This is met with an eye roll, which Patrick ignores. “I’m sorry you aren’t happy with the way we run things. But unfortunately, you currently pose a greater threat to us than we can allow. Which means you’re stuck here.”

A long, cold silence passes with the two glaring at each other, unspoken hatred radiating between them.

Patrick breaks it. “My turn.” He leans back in his chair again, crossing his legs. “What kind of music do you listen to?”

Pete does a double take, clearly taken aback by this. “What?”

“Just answer the question,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “What kind of music do you like?”

Pete almost smiles. “Oh um... lots of stuff. Pop punk, mostly. There’s this band called Arma Angelus that I like. They’re more metalcore, though. Their bassist is pretty incredible.”

Patrick gives him a small, but mostly genuine grin. “Arma Angelus. Good to know.”

There’s another silence, but this one feels a little warmer to the touch, like a fresh loaf of bread, or a gentle summer’s day.

Patrick finds himself wishing that the circumstances were different. He wishes they had met in a coffee shop somewhere. Maybe bonded over music they like. Maybe gone record shopping afterwards. Anything but the current situation, which reads violently dismal and grey.

If only, right?

He’s enough back to reality by Pete clearing his throat.

“Okay. Uh. Last question.” He thinks for a moments before looking back at Patrick. “Are you happy?”

It’s Patrick’s turn to laugh. But he doesn’t, trading it in for a sad smile. “Oh, Pete. How could I be?”

And with that, he stands, straightening his clothes and heading for the door. He looks back for a split second, sees the sadness in Pete’s eyes, and prays that the door slamming shut will be enough to clear it from both of their minds.

Wishful thinking never gets him very far though.


End file.
